Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/164

Rh

And sad to see the marble stone Defaced, and with grey moss o'ergrown; And sad to see the broken lute For ever to its music mute! But what is lute, or fallen tower, Or ship sunk in its proudest hour, To awe and mystery combined In their worst shape—the ruin'd mind? To her was trusted that fine power Which rules the bard's enthusiast hour; The human heart gave up its keys To her, who ruled its sympathies In song whose influence was brought From what first in herself had wrought Too passionate; her least emotion Swept like the whirlwind o'er the ocean.